


Wash It Away

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: A heartfelt moment witnessed between Fred and Archie causes Jughead to brake.





	Wash It Away

“Voicemail again?” The gruff, muted tones of Fred Andrews float down the hall. Jughead pauses, one hand still gripping the banister, socked foot making a barely distinguishable thud as it hits the floor. 

“Yeah,” came Archie’s reply. His voice sounds thick, like he was talking around a substantial lump that had formed in his throat. Jughead knew the feeling well. “I just really wanted to talk to her, especially after everything that happened with...” He trails off, and Jughead could picture the way his face would be flushing red, clashing awfully with his hair. While the secret of Archie’s less than conventional summer fling with his very own Miss Honey had finally seen the light of day it still wasn’t exactly a topic that everyone was rushing to converse about openly. 

Jughead hears a rustle of fabric, assuming that Fred has slapped a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder in a way that fathers in movies always do. 

“She does care about you, Arch. Things are just busy in Chicago I’m sure and... hey, come on,” Fred trails off. There’s the scrape of metal against tiled floors followed by a shuddery exhale, muffled by the close press of flannel against lips. Jughead can feel the uncomfortable prickle of intrusion crawl up the back of his neck but he’s never been very good at impulse control - must run in the family, he thinks wryly. He holds his breathe, as if that would lessen his chances of being caught, as he peers gingerly round the doorway. 

Fred has Archie in his embrace, one arm securely around the expanse of his back, the other hand clasped at the nape of his neck, one finger gently rubbing back and forth through the short hairs there as Archie’s face buries itself against the dip in his dad’s collarbone, shoulders shaking to expel his sadness. 

“It’s alright, son. I’ve got you,” Fred repeats soothingly, and Jughead always was fond of how Fred disregarded the toxic boundaries of fragile masculinity. His eyes are glued to that finger, moving so little against Archie’s hair but doing so much to dispel the tension, easing the ache in the boy’s chest. Jughead blinks rapidly as a thick, wadded up ball of _want_  smacks him directly in the chest. Clawing fingers tighten round his heart, threatening to pierce the barely beating muscle the longer he stays watching the prime time scene unfold before him. 

A shiver runs down his spine and he’s suddenly frozen from the inside out. His fingers are shaking as he turns on his heel and ascends the stairs once again, as quietly as he can, hoping the phantom chattering of his teeth doesn’t give him away. He stumbles into the bathroom, closing the door by pressing his weight against the wood when his body becomes too heavy to hold up on its own. He moves in a daze, fingers turning on the shower and mechanically stripping himself of his many layers of armour until they are in a puddle at his feet, beanie lost beneath them. 

The room clouds over with a haze of steam, but Jughead doesn’t notice it past the film that’s already covering his eyes. His skin burns beneath the scalding water and he welcomes the pain. Anything is better than the persistent numbness that makes him itch all over, wishing he could crawl his way out of his skin for just a few hours relief. His head falls forward beneath the spray, a fountain of water dampening his dark locks, creating a curtain around his face and flooding his ears with a roar that is so much more appealing that the ever-present reminder of _abandoned, unwanted, alone_  that plays like a stuck record in his mind.

He can’t recall when he started to cry but suddenly the water filling his mouth has a distinct salty tang on his tongue, eyes screwing shut and lips pulling back over his teeth as he wracks with silent sobs; if there is one thing he knows it’s how to avoid drawing attention to himself. He slips down the condensation covered tiles, sinking to the porcelain tub below with a marked slowness. Knees press to his chest, arms circling his legs, while his head tucks itself in the small, dark cavern his crumpled body creates. His shoulders shake and the ghost of a comforting finger strokes the hairs at the base of his neck. 

***

“Oh. Hey, Betty,” Fred greets the blonde at the door with warm surprise, returning her gentle smile. 

“Hi, Mr Andrews. Is Jughead home? I was supposed to come over so we could go over the edits for The Blue and Gold,” she chirps, peering around his sturdy form in the doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of grey and blue lurking in the depths of the house. 

“Err, yeah I think he’s in his room. Head on up,” Fred replies, waving her inside. She smiles at him again, her eyes briefly flicking over his shoulder when she catches a view of Archie in the living room. He’s lain out on the sofa, worn checked blanket draped over his bulky frame, Vegas curled on top of his slightly tucked up feet. Betty’s brow creases slightly as she takes in his eyes, noticeably puffy even though they’re closed and flickering in light sleep. She drags her worried gaze from her best friend as she climbs the stairs, making a note to ask Jughead if he’s okay once she finds him. 

“Jug?” she calls uncertainly as she rounds the banister, poking her head inside his doorway but coming up empty, greeted only by the sight of crumpled sheets and strewn clothes. The rushing of the shower reaches her ears and she takes tentative steps down the hallway. “Juggie?” She hesitates, pressing her ear closer to the white painted wood. 

A gut wrenching sob echoes from within and Betty’s trying the handle before she can even think about what she’s doing. The door gives under her hand, swinging open to allow her inside. Green eyes roam frantically around the room before landing on the hunched body beneath the shower head. A gasp slips from between her parted lips as instant tears prick the corner of her eyes. 

Jughead looks so small, swallowed up against the vast whiteness of the bathroom, lost behind the cloying steam that has accumulated around them. It presses on Betty’s chest, making it even harder to breathe as a tightness settles in her chest at the sight of the broken boy before her. 

She rushes forwards, dropping to her knees and reaching out to him. The fabric of her sweater soaks the cascading water up thirstily, causing it to lay heavy and irritating against the delicate skin of her wrists. She barely notices the sensation, pulling at Jughead’s shoulder and placing her hand on his cheek until he lifts his face to her. There’s a void in his eyes that snatches all the oxygen from her lungs. 

“Oh, Jughead,” she breathes, her voice merely air as she leans further over the lip of the bathtub, clutching at his back and pressing his face into the curve of her neck as he continues to cry. 

Betty isn’t sure how much time passes but the water begins to run cold and soon enough Jughead begins to shiver beneath her embrace. She doesn’t speak as she reaches out with one hand to turn off the tap, plunging them into a sudden silence, only his jagged breathing echoing off the walls now. She guides him up with gentle, persistent hands, moving to pick up one of the Andrew’s fluffy blue towels from the rack behind them as Jughead keeps his eyes downcast, unseeing. 

His nakedness doesn’t go unnoticed by her as she wraps him in the warm fabric, helping him step onto the ground with a palm between his shoulder blades. But there’s a whole other nakedness he’s showing her right now, a vulnerability of his soul that’s so open and raw in this instant that she’s afraid to touch it in fear of infecting the wound. They shuffle into Jughead’s room, Betty guiding him to stand by the desk while she goes to close the door softly, checking the hallway for any sign of the other occupants in the house. Jughead still hasn’t spoken, chapped lips hanging open slightly as he pulls in rough, tired breaths. 

Betty strips off her drenched sweater, leaving it in amongst the other clothes on the floor before she opens his dresser, picking out a shirt at random and pulling it over her slightly damp head. 

Jughead can feel himself coming to his senses, thankful that the hot flush of his skin could be attributed to the water, even though he knows that she sees his shame burning beneath. Betty only addresses him with soft understanding, coming over to press a sweet kiss to the dark spots of colour on either cheek. 

Her hands begin to move over his body, rubbing the towel gently against his wet skin to dry him off. She’s methodical and attentive in only the way a Cooper could be, making sure he’s completely dry before she’s satisfied. She crouches at his feet, pulling at one foot and then the other to help him into a clean pair of pajama pants before sliding them up his legs and settling the elastic comfortably against his waist. She raises his arms, slipping the freshly laundered shirt over his torso, too. 

She’s treating him like a child, and he can’t bring himself to mind. She’s flooding him with an affection that borders on motherly and it just feels so _nice_  that he doesn’t want her to stop. The tender touches and systematic routine of it all reeks of nostalgia for something he can’t even remember if he ever had. Jughead thinks he’s probably only read about it in books, seen it on TV, but he knows what it’s supposed to be like and this is it. His heart begins thrumming faster as she runs her fingertips over his chest. 

Betty pushes on his shoulders until he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, kneeling behind him with the towel in hand again. She drags it over his dripping hair, gently scrunching her hands in a motion so soothing that it has Jughead closing his eyes, drawing his lower lip between his teeth as he fights back tears he doesn’t even think he’s capable of anymore. Tears of contentment.

The towel is abandoned once she’s finished, replaced by the drag of his comb through his drying waves. Betty remembers how she’d sit before her vanity as a child while Alice pulled a brush through her flaxen locks, sending her into a dazed sleep before she even made it between the sheets. The corners of her mouth tilt upwards as she notes the way Jughead’s head is beginning to loll, and a low hum reverberates in his chest at her ministrations. 

At this, Betty sets the comb down, pulling him back onto the bed and into her embrace, draping the duvet over both of them, kissing his forehead chastely before she tucks his head beneath her chin, legs tangling together beneath the covers.

“You are loved, Jughead Jones,” she whispers into the stillness, feeling the rhythmic fanning of his breath against the skin of her neck stop as his next exhale catches in his throat. The tension leaves her shoulders as it resumes, Jughead shuffling closer to the enveloping warmth of her body.

“I know,” he replies. And he’s starting to believe it.


End file.
